Alone
by Hel83
Summary: Spike struggles to cope with Buffy's death.


Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and characters belong to Joss Whedon.  
Summary: Spike struggles to cope after Buffy's death.  
Notes: The song 'Breathing' is copyright of Lifehouse  
  
The winter sun had set hours ago, and now a brisk wind whipped up the scattered autumn leaves. The pavements were slick with rain that had fallen hours before, and the air was icy cold.  
The lone figure, stooped over to minimise battering by the wind, crossed onto the other side of Revello Drive, pulling his collar up to shelter his neck and digging his hands deep into his pockets. His blond head caught the streetlight as he crossed the dead lawn of one of the family homes that lined the street, jogging up the walk and the front steps, pulling open the tattered screen door and slipping a key into the lock. The door hadn't been opened in a while, and it squeaked open, sending up a cloud of dust.   
Batting at the dust, the man slowly closed the door. He stood for a moment, as if taking in the surroundings, despite the deep darkness that filled the house. Slowly, he crossed into the living room, noting the burnt-out candle on the coffee table, the wax melted onto the tiled top. A sheet had been thrown unceremoniously onto the sofa: a feeble attempt to protect it from dust. Backing up, the man crossed the hall, glancing briefly up the stairs, and entered the dining room. A thick layer of dust covered the once finely-polished table top, still with its placemats and napkins arranged as if it would be the destination of a happy, friendly, family meal. A large church candle sat in the centre of the table, the wick burning away. The figure leant over the table, pinching the wick between his thumb and forefinger, extinguishing the flame.   
Next, he moved into the kitchen. A cereal packet lay open on the counter in the centre of the room, mouldy grains spilling onto the top. A pile of dishes lay in the sink, mould growing on various plates and bowls. A jug of water had been placed next to the microwave, but it appeared fetid. The back door hung open, the screen door banging in the wind. The figure closed it gently, leaving it unlocked.  
Again, the figure moved through the rooms, into the hallway. Looking up the stairs, he began to climb, his gaze centring on the room at the top. Gently, he knocked on the dusty door, his senses heightened as he listened for signs of movement. From inside, he heard the muffled sound of someone crying. Outside the door, a tray bearing an empty plate had been pushed to one side.   
Sighing, Spike reached into his pocket and pulled out a flattened packet of chips and a carton of juice. Placing them on the tray, he knocked at the door again.  
"Dawn?" he said, leaning in to talk through the wood. "It's me. There's a little snack for you out here." He listened for sounds of movement. There were none, only the sound of sobbing. He sighed. "I'll just leave it here then. You can get it when you want."   
Grimly, he turned around, and sat down on the top of the stairs. It had been almost three months since Buffy had died. Even longer since Joyce had died. But Dawn hadn't been outside of her room, save to collect the food that himself or Willow left for her. She hadn't spoken to them, hadn't let them enter. The only sign of life was the sobbing.   
At first it had angered him. He had also lost someone who he felt so dearly about. But he had come to accept that Dawn needed to mourn. She would be feeling so alone and scared right now, and needed to know that people cared for her if she ever felt like letting them in.  
Spike kept up his vigil late into the night, sleeping briefly, then waking to the sound of a door closing. He turned to look at the tray. It was empty. Smiling grimly, he settled back onto the stair. He would stay there as long as she needed him. She would never be alone again.   
  
  
"I am hanging on every word you say,  
And even if you don't want to speak tonight,   
That's all right, all right with me.  
'Cos I want nothing more than to   
Sit outside heaven's door,  
And listen to you breathing.  
It's where I want to be."  
-'Breathing' ã Lifehouse (2001) 


End file.
